


Show and Tell

by the_random_writer



Series: Separated Twins [22]
Category: Bourne (Movies), RED (Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Brothers, Children, Crossover, Elementary School, Family Dinners, Gen, Knives, Lust at First Sight, Separated Twins, Showing Off, Twins, Uncle-Niece Relationship, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 15:07:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19201372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: A crossover where William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy' are identical twins.Born in Berlin to an American mother and a Russian father, the twins were separated at the age of ten by their parents' divorce. William went to the United States with their mother, while Kirill went to the Soviet Union with their father.Each installment in theseriestells the story of a moment in the twins' lives. Some are humorous, some are serious. They are all more or less standalone, but interconnect and refer to each other.Tatiana takes Kirill to school for 'Show and Tell'. As you'd expect when dealing with an ex-FSB assassin, things don'tquitego according to plan...Takes place in early April 2012.





	Show and Tell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laguera25](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laguera25/gifts).



For what felt like the fortieth time that day, Rachel plastered a smile on her face.

She  _ _loved__  her job. Really, she did.

And more than any other duty she had as a teacher, she loved the joys of 'Show and Tell'.

Except by 'loved', she actually meant 'loathed and hated with every last ounce of her soul'.

She'd only been a teacher at this school for three years, and 'Show and Tell' was only a bi-annual event, but she'd already seen more X-rays, bird's nests, dinosaur toys and antique bottle top collections than any one person should ever be expected to see.

Why did she always end up with the perfectly well-behaved class? Why couldn't she teach the class with the kid who brought in a gun, or a severed, gangrenous finger, or a ten-year-old Polaroid shot of his mom's best friend going down on his dad? Was the occasional, tiny whiff of excitement really  _too_ much to ask?

She reminded herself she was a second grade teacher, in one of McLean's nicest elementary schools. If she wanted excitement, she was in the wrong job. If she wanted excitement, she should have taken a high school position over in Brentwood or Petworth instead.

"Thank you, Matthew," she said, waving the baseball hat owner back to his desk. "That was  _ _extremely__ informative." And by 'extremely informative', she meant 'boring as shit'. Everyone knew what a baseball hat was. And it wasn't even a special hat—just the faded, threadbare Nationals hat he wore to school pretty much every day. Knowing Matthew, he'd probably forgotten he was supposed to be doing his 'Show and Tell' until she'd asked him about it this morning. He was a nice boy, but a little bit idiotic that way—always forgetting something important, like homework, lunch and common sense. She turned to address his peers. "Everyone, please give Matthew a round of applause."

Most of Matthew's fellow students looked as unimpressed as she felt, but being the polite, middle-class children they were, they dutifully did exactly as she instructed, bringing their seven- and eight-year-old hands together with an apathy she felt in her bones.

His torture over, Matthew trotted back to his seat.

Nine presentations down, and mercifully, only one more to go. Just over an hour from now, she would be back in her tiny apartment, cracking open an extra large bag of barbecue chips and a bottle of her favourite Bordeaux. The week she'd had, she might skip the glass and swig the damn stuff straight from the bottle.

She grabbed her sheet from the desk, trying to remember who the tenth and final presenter would be. As she read the name at the end of the list, a warning shiver ran up her spine. So much for a peaceful end to her day—she was probably going to see it out with a hurried trip to the principal's office. She liked Tatiana, but the girl was nothing if not a magnet for trouble—pure chaos in seven-year-old form.

Once again, she put on her smile. "Our last 'Show and Tell' today will be from Tatiana." She looked to the girl, bright-eyed and waiting at the back of the room. Rachel indicated for her to come forward, asking, "Tatiana, what are you going to show us today?"

Tatiana slid out of her desk to march to the front of the room, like a miniature Cleopatra marching through the streets of Rome. Oh, but this was going to be good. "It's not a thing," the young girl announced. "It's a  _ _person__."

Rachel tried not to groan. No, this wasn't going to be good. This was going to be  _ _bad__. This was absolutely the last thing she needed—a fifteen-minute long speech from some well-intentioned but boring do-gooder. A fireman, or maybe a nurse. She tried to remember what Tatiana's parents did for a living. She'd only met them once, for ten minutes, at a parents' night at the start of the year. Correction, she'd only met  _ _mom__  once for ten minutes—dad hadn't been able to make it due to a last-minute snafu at work. As she remembered, mom was some kind of lawyer. Not really the kind of job that would make a good subject for 'Show and Tell'.

"And who is the person?" she asked, her eyes going to the door, checking for someone hanging around outside. She hoped whoever it was had had the sense to go to the office to put their name in the visitor book. Mister Rowe was a stickler for that kind of thing…

"It's my Uncle Kirill," Tatiana declared.

A Russian name, if Rachel wasn't mistaken. Just like the girl's. "And what does your Uncle Kirill do?" she asked, hoping the answer wasn't 'a cop' or 'a garbage collector'.

Tatiana frowned. "I don't know." Her face broke into a wicked grin. "But  _ _I__  think he's a spy."

"A  _ _spy__?" Rachel repeated. Obviously not a very good one, if a seven-year-old had figured him out.

Tatiana's head enthusiastically bobbed up and down. "He works for the CIA," she said. "And my karate teacher says  _ _everyone__ who works for the CIA is a spy."

Rachel didn't really know what people who worked for the CIA did, but given what she'd seen in some movies, that seemed a reasonable deduction to make. "And where is your Uncle Kirill right now?"

"He's out in the hall," Tatiana told her, gesturing to the door.

"Then, go bring him in." Rachel raised a warning finger. "And walk, please, Miss Cooper. Don't run."

As usual, her warning went completely unheeded. Tatiana hurtled herself across to the door, yanked it open as if she was trying to rip it away from the hinges and vanished out into the hall. A few seconds later, she backed into the room, leading a strange man by the hand.

And  _ _mamma goddamn fucking mia__ , what a delectable strange man he was.

Six-one, or maybe six-two, wearing sneakers, jeans and a casual shirt with a small backpack draped over one shoulder. His clothes were loose, but she could tell from the supple, confident way he moved he was toned and firm in all the right places. He probably had abs and biceps like rocks. Fortunately, his face was just as pleasing to look at. He wasn't attractive in a traditional way—no pretty-boy Bloom or Reynolds features here—but he had cheekbones she could cut herself on, and eyes of an indeterminate colour that seemed to stare right into her soul. His full lips were slightly pursed, and his brows were verging on an irascible frown. His hair was almost buzzcut short, but strangely, bedhead messy at the same time. He had a smattering of designer stubble, a nasty scar on the side of his head, and walked with a slight limp in his right leg. The overall impression he gave was mad, bad and lethal to know—the closest she and her class would ever come to meeting a bad guy from a Bond movie.

Suddenly, Tatiana's idea of her uncle being a CIA spy didn't seem quite so ridiculous after all…

Rachel stepped forward, extending a hand. "Hi, there, I'm Rachel McKinnon, Tatiana's teacher," she said, gifting her broody, hot-as-sin guest with her most welcoming 'raw me now' smile. School rules said teachers weren't allowed to date parents, step-parents or adult brothers and sisters, but what about uncles? Were uncles okay?

He grasped and shook her hand. "Kirill Orlov," he said, with an accent that made her go weak at the knees. He  pronounced it 'key-reel', which, presumably, was the proper way.

"You're Russian?" she guessed.

He nodded. "It is complicated, but more or less, yes."

She turned her smile on Tatiana. "I didn't know you had Russian relations." Not that she really gave a crap, but feigning an interest in said relations might put her on Fuckable Uncle's 'nice people' list.

Tatiana nodded. "My dad's dad was from Russia," she said.

"So, you're her __paternal__  uncle?" she asked her guest, thinking that if his answer was 'yes', something didn't add up.

"Her father is my brother, yes."

"Okay, but if that's the case, shouldn't you be a Cooper as well?"

Fuckable Uncle sighed. "It is an _extremely_ long story."

Sadly, given what he was here for, one he didn't have time to tell her right now. Maybe, if she played her cards right, she could somehow persuade him to share it with her over dinner and oral sex later…

"Okay, well, welcome to class." She turned to her students. "Everyone, say hello to Mister Orlov."

"Hello, Mister Orlov," her students sing-songed more or less together.

Fuckable Uncle forced a smile and gave a small wave. "Hello, class."

"You know what you're going to show us today?" She knew what __she__  wanted to see, but unless he was a CIA spy by day and an expensive rent boy by night, a striptease seemed extremely unlikely.

He nodded. "We have a rough idea, yes."

"Ready when you are," she said to Tatiana before moving to sit in one of the empty desks along the left wall.

"This is my Uncle Kirill," Tatiana announced. "And he's the coolest uncle  _ever_. He used to be a __soldier__." As if to remind them what a soldier did, she jumped into a hands-up fighting pose. "But now he's a  _ _spy__. And he can do all kinds of really neat things."

"Like what?" Alonso Gutiérrez asked, throwing down the first challenge.

To Rachel's relief, Tatiana pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket. She'd prepped a list. Good. Because if any of these little  ~~shits~~  darlings deserved to be firmly put in their place, it was Señor Gutiérrez.

"He can speak nine languages," Tatiana proclaimed.

A couple of kids made ooh-ing sounds. And rightly so, in Rachel's (hopelessly monolingual) opinion—nine languages was  _ _extremely__  impressive.

Predictably, some of the snottier children didn't agree. "Nobody can speak __nine__ languages," Emily Johnson primly declared, as if she was the world's leading authority on the matter. "You're making that up."

" _Can_ you speak nine languages, Mister Orlov?" Rachel asked.

He nodded and raised his hands to count them off on his fingers. "English, German, Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, Turkish, Arabic, Pashto and Farsi." He held up his thumb and index finger a half-inch apart. "And a little bit of Chechen as well."

Jesus. That was a  _ _hell__  of a list. And with a geo-political focus like that, you didn't have to be Albert Einstein to figure out why he was in the job he was in. He must be helping the CIA with all kinds of 'sensitive' stuff.

"Prove it," Matthew, the baseball hat owner, said. "Count to ten in all of them."

"Very well," was Cunning Linguist Uncle's polite reply. "In English, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten."

Emily bashed a fist on her desk. "We __know__  English."

"But your classmate said all of them, did he not?" Taking No Shit Uncle shot back. "And all includes English, yes?"

"I suppose," Emily muttered, defeated.

Don’t Mess With Me Uncle continued. "In German, eins, zwei, drei, vier, funf, sechs, sieben, acht, neun, zehn. In Russian,"—the way he rolled the 'r' made her neglected lady parts cry—"adeen, dva, tri, chetire, pyat, shest, sem, vosem, devyt, desyt." And so it went on, one language after another, until, "In Farsi, yek, doh, seh, chahar, panj, shesh, haft, hasht, noh, dah."

One skill proved beyond all doubt. How many more skills to come?

Tatiana went back to her list. "He can whistle  _ _really__  loud."

This one wasn't quite as impressive. Did whistling really count as a skill?

Bangable Uncle made an 'A' shape with the first two fingers of both hands, drew his lips back over his teeth, pushed his fingers into his mouth, turned to look at her,  _winked_  and blew out a whistle so piercingly loud it made her flinch and cover her ears.

Somewhere outside, a dog started to bark.

Okay, yeah, that was a skill. What use it had, she wasn't quite sure, but it was still a skill.

"He can juggle," Tatiana said next.

Dog Trainer Uncle opened his bag to bring out four orange-sized rubber balls. A few seconds later, all four balls were gracefully arcing through the air in a continuous, colourful circle of motion. She'd seen people juggle as many as eight, mostly street performers or circus acts, but unless the CIA was using some really creative cover stories, this would only be a hobby—not something he'd ever done for a living.

After a minute, he brought the balls to a halt, gracefully catching them one at a time.

"There's a guy in the mall who juggles," Emily sniffily said. "It's not that hard."

"Can  _you_  juggle?" Circus Runaway Uncle asked.

"No."

Rachel tensed, silently pleading with her guest not to step on a seven-year-old girl in front of her class, no matter how much Little Miss Haughty Smartass deserved it.

Thankfully, all her guest said was, "Then perhaps you should learn."

Tatiana returned to her list. "He can rip an apple apart with his hands."

Aaron Medina gasped, which made some of the other kids giggle.

A shiny red apple came out of the bag. Hot Uncle held it in his clasped hands, and in one smooth motion, tore it cleanly in two. Rachel was pretty sure the trick was all about physics—a question of where you placed the fleshy mounds of your palms and how you exerted the tearing force—but it still looked impressive.

Fruit Abuser Uncle held up the two halves to show to the class, kept one for himself and handed the other to Tatiana. For the next twenty seconds, the classroom was filled with the sound of uncle and niece happily munching and crunching.

She tried not to watch the way his lips moved as he ate. What she wouldn't give to have him use them on something else…

"What's next?" Timothy Taylor asked.

Tatiana glanced at her list. "He can pick a lock."

Rachel's stomach flipped over. She couldn't imagine a lock-picking skill had anything other than a nefarious explanation. Was this really something she wanted the children to see?

Potential Criminal Uncle pulled a small leather pouch out of his back trouser pocket. "Miss McKinnon, does something in this room have a standard, tumbler pin lock?" he asked.

She glanced around. "Um, is this the kind of lock you mean?" she asked, pointing at the door of the storage cupboard behind her.

He swaggered up to peer at the lock, standing so close she could smell the aftershave he was wearing. It was a lovely scent—something outdoorsy and clean—and made her want to lick him all over. "Yes, this is exactly what I need," he said, opening the door to examine the lock from the inside. He stepped away, gesturing at it. "Could you please lock the door for me?"

She pulled her keychain out of her pocket, pushed the door shut, slid the key in and turned it ninety degrees.

He turned to the boy at a nearby desk. "Could you please test the door for me?"

Nodding eagerly, Jonathan slid out of his chair, came to the cupboard and yanked on the handle as hard as he could. "It's locked," he told the rest of the class, then went back to his seat.

Burglar Uncle turned to address the class. "You need two tools to pick a tumbler pin lock," he said. He held up a long, L-shaped piece of metal. "This is called a tension wrench." Next, he held up a long, thin piece of metal that looked like a half-finished, flattened out corkscrew. "And this is called a rake pick," he added.

He ushered her out of the way and kneeled down in front of the door. He stuck the tension wrench in the bottom part of the lock and pushed down on it very slightly. He stuck the rake pick in the key space above and slowly moved it back and forth a half dozen times until something inside clicked. He brought up his hand to push on the handle; the cupboard door swung open. Task accomplished, he pushed up to his feet.

"That's _so_  cool," Jackson Schaeffer whispered.

"Isn't that illegal?" Emily asked.

"It is not illegal to own the tools, no," Not A Criminal After All Uncle said, putting the tools in question away. "But it  _is_  illegal to use them to break into a house." He flashed Rachel the blandest of smiles. "Which I would obviously  _never_  do."

Rachel wasn't quite sure how to interpret his remark. Did the fact he might occasionally break into bad people's houses on CIA orders make him  _less_  sexy, or more?

"What's next?" she said to Tatiana, aware of the fact they only had twenty minutes left in the day. This was the best 'Show and Tell' she'd sat through yet, and she damn well wanted to see it in full.

"He can pick handcuffs as well."

Back at the front of the class, the backpack provided the item in question. Potentially Into Bondage Uncle opened them and held them out to her, asking, "Would you please do the honours?" He turned around with his wrists clasped together.

Heat washed through her body onto her neck and cheeks. She hoped like hell none of the kids would notice—the last thing she needed was for one of them to blab to a parent that she'd developed the hots for another student's uncle. Carefully, she snapped a cuff around each wrist, pushing to close them both over. "How's that?" she asked.

He pulled on the cuffs; nothing happened. "Perfect." Louder, he added, "Would anyone like to test the cuffs for me?"

Twenty-one hands shot into the air. Only Emily the Fun Killer declined, slumping in her seat with her shoulders hunched and her arms tightly crossed. Rachel scanned the room, thinking about who'd caused the least trouble this week, and who was therefore the most deserving of the reward. "Sean," she decided.

Sean slid out of his seat and shuffled to the front of the room. He yanked the chain between the cuffs then tried to pull each bracelet open. Nothing happened—her guest's wrists were locked in tight.

"All good?" Let's Play Guards And Prisoners Uncle asked.

"Uh huh," Sean said.

"Thank you Sean," Rachel said, waving him back to the seat.

"You're gonna dislocate your shoulders, right?" Adam Paxter asked, eyes wide in enthusiasm. "And bring your arms over your head to the front so you can see what you're doing?"

Rachel hadn't considered that. She didn't know what dislocating your shoulders involved, but it might be too traumatic for a room full of second-grade kids. As Mister Rowe was always reminding her, unless someone had brought a doctor or paramedic with them, a good 'Show and Tell' should always end without an ambulance visit.

Fortunately, Luscious Uncle shook his head. "That is not necessary. I can pick the cuffs even when they are locked behind me."

She noticed then that he had something in one of his hands—a sturdy paper-clip, of all things. The class watched with bated breath as he opened up one side of the clip and carefully bent it into an angle, stuck the end in the hole where the key would go and jiggled it around until something clicked and the cuffs sprang open.

The children gasped, a few of them even clapped.

Houdini Uncle removed the cuffs, turned to face the class and took a tiny, modest bow. He leaned over to drop the cuffs in his bag. She bit down the urge to ask him if he would show her how to pick them again in private later. Maybe while he was cuffed to her bed. Oh, yeah, and wearing only his briefs. Actually, screw the briefs. If she was going to play the Guard, she wanted her Prisoner totally naked.

"What's next?" Rachel said to Tatiana. Surely, he couldn't have many tricks left.

"He can also do a one-armed handstand."

Nope. Apparently he could.

Her guest went to the empty space at the front of the room, leaned forward to place his hands on the floor, and in one shockingly fluid motion, pushed up into a perfect, rock-steady handstand position. After a few seconds, he spread his legs in a symmetrical, wide-spread 'V'. He held there for three or four seconds, then carefully leaned to the side until his 'V' rotated forty or fifty degrees, paused again, then slowly lifted his left arm until it was parallel with the floor.

He made it look easy, but she was quite sure if he wasn't wearing clothes, she would see how much every muscle in his toned body was straining. Jesus. How she dearly wished he wasn't wearing his clothes. What a glorious sight that would be. If he asked her nicely, she would even offer to massage the muscles strains and tension out after. Especially around his groin.

As it turned out, he wasn't quite done. He placed his raised hand back on the floor, brought his V back to pointing straight up, held for a second, then did the whole thing all over again on the other side, this time, raising his right arm off the ground instead.

Now, he was just showing off.

She didn't care. She could sit here and watch him show off all day.

He put his right hand back on the floor, brought his legs back together, twisted around in a dismount motion and sprang to his feet, facing the class, heels neatly clicking together.

"That was  _awesome_ ," a grinning Alejandro Ulloa said. "You're like, a _Jedi_ , or something."

Or, as close to a Jedi as a regular person could be. Although, given what he did for a living, maybe Sith Lord would be a more appropriate label. Darth Kirill could use The Force to show her his dark side however, whenever and wherever as he wanted.

"There's one more really cool thing my uncle could do," Tatiana announced to the class. Not  _quite_  true—Rachel was sure there were  _many_  more cool things her uncle could do—but the girl probably meant in the context of her 'Show and Tell' presentation. Grinning like a jackal eating a cactus, Tatiana said, "He can throw knives."

A shocked pause, then twenty-three faces turned her way. The kids weren't stupid. They knew this was big. They knew this needed the teacher's permission.

There was only one problem. According to the school rules, knives of any kind were absolutely forbidden, second only to guns in the degree of how thoroughly they were banned. As exciting as the display would be, she simply couldn't permit it.

"I'm afraid this time, we'll have to take Tatiana's word for it," she told the class. In perfect unison, twenty-three young faces fell, and twenty-three tiny mouths let out a disappointed groan. "You know the rules. Absolutely no knives or guns at school."

"Miss McKinnon?" Sith Lord Uncle asked.

"Yes, Mister Orlov?"

"I read the school rules on the web page last night."

Oh, God. He was about tell her he'd found a get-out clause. She was half-excited, half scared. Legal loopholes were all well and fine, but as she'd long since learned, they usually didn't do you much good when you were being shouted at in the principal's office.

"And?"

"And the rules about knives and guns seem to only apply to pupils." He flashed a beatific smile. "As you are no doubt aware, I am not a pupil. I am a trained, qualified, responsible adult."

Trained, yes. Qualified, yes. Responsible? Hmm. That last one needed more convincing.

"I have to think about the example you're setting," she said. "It's not the kind of thing we should be showing to seven- and eight-year-old kids. It could encourage them into all kinds of reckless behaviour." Especially Aaron. One quick demo, and young Mister Medina would likely now have decided he wanted to be a lock-picking burglar when he grew up.

"It is no worse than what they would see at the circus or the state fair. It will be very safe. None of the children will be in any kind of danger." He gestured to Tatiana. "Remember, that one of them is my own niece."

" _Please_ , Miss McKinnon?" Clara Monaco whined, which triggered a begging chorus from the rest of the class.

Rachel raised her hand to ask for silence. Once the children were quiet, she turned back to her guest and said, "What would you throw the knives at?" Not her new whiteboard, that was for sure. And not any of her freshly painted walls, either.

"I brought my wooden target board with me." He waved to the door. "I left it behind the chair in the hall. I did not want to bring it in until I knew I would be able to use it."

Decisions, decisions.

It wasn't allowed, but as he'd just pointed out, for him, it wasn't strictly forbidden, either. The choice was hers. Okay, no. The choice was probably Mister Rowe's. His school, his pupils, his teachers, his rules. But she already knew what Party Pooper Rowe would say. This might be a perfect example of when to ask for forgiveness instead of permission.

Fuck it.

"I have three conditions," she said.

Sensing victory, the children started to cheer. Even Emily looked excited. Tatiana ran to the door and disappeared into the hall. She reappeared a few seconds later carrying a large wooden board, which was covered in gouges of various sizes. It looked like the kind of thing you would find in a serial killer's basement.

"Which are?" Potential Serial Killer Uncle asked.

"Firstly, only you will touch or use the knives."

He nodded quickly. "Agreed. I will not let the children anywhere near them."

"Secondly, you don't throw  _anything_  unless all of the children are standing behind you."

Another nod. "This is also a basic safety requirement."

"Thirdly, if I get fired over this, you're gonna help me find a new job." She was beginning to think she didn't really have what it took to be a good second-grade teacher. If they fired her, she wasn't sure she would care, but she  _did_  have rent and bills to pay, so she needed to be in some kind of work.

"You will not lose your job. I give you my word. If there is any trouble, you can blame it on me, and I will ask my brother to sort it all out."

That didn't seem possible, unless his brother was the Federal or Virginia State Secretary of Education. But this was McLean. Half of her students' parents worked in one federal government role or another. So, never say never.

He looked from the back wall to the front wall, measuring something in his head. "I would like to do a two-spin throw, which needs a distance of roughly five metres." He stepped a few feet forward to tap his foot on a line in the floor. "My throwing line will be here. All the children must stand as far behind this point as they can."

Fortunately, it was a modern school, with plenty of light, and more importantly, plenty of space.

Rachel beckoned the kids to the rear of the room. "Everyone, please come and stand with me at the back of the room. Mister Orlov won't give us his demo until he knows you're all completely out of harm's way."

The children hurried out of their seats to arrange themselves along the back wall.

Assassin's Creed Uncle took the throwing board to the front of the room and set it on the inch-wide shelf underneath the board, where she usually stored her marker pens and erasers. From there, he went to his backpack to pull out a packet of cards. He extracted the cards, fanned them out and presented them to her. "Pick five cards," he said.

She selected five cards at random. He put the rest of them back in the box, threw the box into his bag and returned to claim her selections from her. "Do you have any tape?" he asked.

"In a dispenser on my desk."

"Thank you."

He went to her desk to grab the tape, then used it to stick the cards to the board in a perfectly symmetrical 'X'—one in each corner and one perfectly aligned in the middle. He placed the dispenser back on the desk and went to his backpack to pull out a bundle of knives.

McKenzie Whittaker gasped.

And rightly so. Rachel didn't know much about knives, but even she could tell these blades were for throwing (and maybe killing) only, not the kind of thing you kept in your kitchen to chop up your veggies and slice up your steak. Burnished metal—probably stainless steel—with no grips or handles that she could see, symmetrical instead of one-sided, cast in a slight bulging shape that tapered to a lethal point. Six of them in total, four the same size, two slightly thinner and smaller.

Oh so carefully, he laid them in a row on the desk, like a torturer setting out his tools, then solemn-faced, turned to address the children again. "I have been throwing knives for almost twenty years. It took me a very long time to learn how to do this, and I was specially trained. Under no circumstances should  _any_  of you  _ever_  try to do this yourselves." He looked from one end of the row to the other, gathering their innocent gazes to him. "Is that clear?" he asked.

Twenty-three heads vigorously nodded.

"Then let us begin," he said.

A deathly silence fell over the room. Nobody so much as sniffed.

Using his right hand, he picked up one of the knives by the blade to hold it casually down by his thigh. Keeping his posture straight but relaxed, he placed his left foot forward until it was touching the seam he'd marked out on the floor. He took a deep breath, raised his arm until it was parallel to the ground, bent it at the elbow until the knife was sitting beside his ear, and threw the blade straight forward, shifting onto his left leg as he let go.

She barely saw it, but she heard it. A slight whistling sound as air was sundered by spinning metal, then a heavy thunk as the blade soundly embedded itself in the top left corner of the board, right through the face of the King of Clubs.

Five seconds later, a second knife went the way of the first, taking out the Seven of Hearts in the top right corner.

He picked up another blade, but this time, with his left hand. He winked at her as he reversed his position, placing his right foot forward instead of his left. The bastard was ambidextrous—equally lethal with either hand.

What she wouldn't let those equally capable hands do to (or with) her body…

Whistle, thunk, whistle, thunk. Knife number three took out the Eight of Diamonds in the bottom left corner. Knife number four took out the Four of Spades in the bottom right.

Ever the consummate performer, he saved his best trick for last.

He picked up the final two blades—the smaller and thinner pair—taking one in each hand, raised both to his ears, and released them precisely together. They embedded themselves a millisecond apart, side by side in the Ace of Spades.

Without waiting for her to prompt, the children started to shriek and clap.

Just as the principal stepped through the door.

It was a competition to see who could look the most shocked—her, Mister Rowe or Hot Russian Knife-Throwing Uncle.

"Uh oh," Timothy Taylor said.

'Uh oh' was fine. 'Oh shit' was even better.

"Miss McKinnon," the principal started, reluctantly dragging his horrified gaze away from the knife-covered board. "I'd heard you were running another 'Show and Tell' session today, thought I'd stop in to check on how it was going." He plastered a rictus smile on his face—a smile that told her once the children were safely out of the way, she was in for the mother (and father) of all verbal reamings. "I see everyone's having fun," he added, except by 'having fun' he actually meant 'breaking every damn rule in the book'. Which was fun for her, and maybe the kids, but never for Mister 'I never met a rule I didn't love' Rowe.

Fuck it.

She couldn't hide what Mister Rowe or the children had seen, so better to just brazen it out. "We're having a  _lot_  of fun," she said. She waved to her guest. "As you can see, Mister Orlov here has just finished showing us his knife-throwing technique. It was  _very_  exciting." She turned to the children, still frozen in place along the back wall. "Did you all enjoy it as much as I did?"

Twenty-three heads enthusiastically nodded.

"What do we say to Mister Orlov, then?" she prompted.

"Thank you, Mister Orlov," twenty-three children hollered.

Superstar Uncle turned to face the children. "Thank you, and you are all very welcome. I am glad you enjoyed the display." He raised a warning finger. "But please remember to never, _ever_ try what you just saw at home."

With perfect timing, the school bell rang, signalling the end of the day.

The children rushed back to their desks to gather up their belongings.

"Class dismissed," Rachel called out. "For those of you who did 'Show and Tell', please remember to take home whatever you brought in with you."

Slowly but surely, the children filed out, most of them saying 'goodbye' to her, some to Mister Rowe, a few even to Mister Orlov. Only Tatiana held back, likely because her uncle was taking her home.

As soon as the classroom door clicked shut, Mister Rowe's smile vanished like a light switching off. He turned on her, brows pulled together, arms tightly crossed, heaving a disapproving sigh. "Miss McKinnon, you  _do_  realize the school has a very strict ban on dangerous weapons?" he asked, his tone cold and sharp enough to freeze steel.

Before she could answer, Chivalrous Uncle stepped in. "It is not Miss McKinnon's fault," he said. "She warned me about the legal restrictions, I persuaded her that the display would be quick, and would not do anyone any harm."

"That's all very well, Mister"—the principal frowned—"sorry, what did you say your name was again?"

'Forgetting' a name he'd just heard—one of Mister Rowe's favourite psychological tactics.

Sadly, one that went over the head of her guest.

The smile that appeared on Sinfully Hot Uncle's face—the best word she could think of was 'feral'—made him look like a wolf moving in for the kill. "Orlov," he said. "Kirill Orlov." He brought out his wallet and opened it to pull out a card, which he then handed to Mister Rowe.

As the principal took the card to read it, his brows shot up into his hair. "You're with the CIA," he said.

"I am, yes."

"That must be a very interesting job."

"Sometimes, yes." Probably Dangerous Uncle made a psychological play of his own. "But not as interesting as the job I used to have," he added.

"Which was?"

"I used to be Special Forces," Definitely Dangerous Uncle revealed, going to the wall to pull out his knives. He threw them casually into his bag, as if he was tidying away some loose odds and ends and not a collection of killing weapons.

"Really?" Mister Rowe asked. "And what was it that made that role more interesting than what you do now?"

The feral smile came out again. "You know how it is, Mister Rowe. I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you."

Silence.

Mister Rowe cleared his throat. "Yes, well. I'm glad today's display was a success." He adjusted his glasses and smoothed down his tie. "I won't say anything more about it, but let's all agree it won't happen again?"

"Of course," Rachel quickly said. "It was a one-off. You have my word."

"And also mine," Hot Uncle added. He grabbed the target board from the wall to stack it next to his bag. He smiled and shrugged. "Next time, I will do it at Tania's birthday party instead. I may even show them how to throw axes as well."

Tatiana smothered a giggle. She might only be seven years old, but even she knew when her uncle was fucking with someone. Not that this came as much of a shock. Fucking with people was obviously a Cooper family talent. Or an Orlov family talent. Whatever the hell they were called. Their surname might as well be Trouble. Kirill and Tatiana Trouble. Yeah, that seemed about right.

"As long as the party's not on school grounds, that's absolutely fine with me." Mister Rowe looked at his watch. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a phone call to make." With a final frosty glare at her, he strode to the door and withdrew as quietly as he'd arrived.

"I hope you will not be in trouble," Suddenly Concerned Uncle said. He swung his backpack over his shoulder and hitched his target board under his arm.

Rachel waved his query away. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure I'll be fine." He was about to leave; it was now or never. She summoned every last ounce of courage she had. "If I  _do_  get in trouble, you can apologize by buying me dinner," she said, only just managing not to add 'and by railing me into next week'.

His smile—excruciatingly polite—warned her his answer was something she wouldn't want to hear. "I would happily take you to dinner, but only if my girlfriend could come as well."

She wanted to scream. God fucking shitting damn it. Why were men like toilet stalls—all the good ones were taken and the rest were totally full of shit? But maybe the relationship wasn't a serious thing. Maybe, next week or next month, he might be looking for something else?

"And it would have to be in the next couple of months," he added. "We are expecting a baby at the end of June. Once it is born, neither of us will have much time to go out for dinner."

So much for that idea. Married or not, having a baby together was about as serious as a relationship got. And she couldn't even ask him if he had an unattached brother. She already knew the answer to that.

"That'll be exciting," was all she could bring herself to say. "You must be getting nervous by now."

"A little bit, yes." Distressingly Unavailable Uncle let out an anxious-sounding sigh. "But I survived ten years in Special Forces. How bad can changing a diaper be?" Before she could answer, he turned to his niece. "Are you ready to go?"

Tatiana nodded. "Are we going for ice cream now?" She drew her brows together. "Because you promised we could have ice cream after."

"I did and we are. But we have to collect your brother first."

Tatiana huffed. "This was  _my_  'Show and Tell'. Why does he get ice cream as well?"

"Tania," Suddenly Stern Uncle warned. "Remember what mama told you last night. Not everything is always all about you."

 _Since when_ , Tatiana's glare and wrinkled nose said.

"Thank you again, Miss McKinnon," About To Leave Her Forever Uncle said, holding out his free hand.

She took it and shook it. "Thank  _you_ , Mister Orlov, for giving me the most interesting end to a day I've had in weeks." And enough sexual fantasy material to keep her going for at least a couple of months. For obvious reasons, tonight's would involve handcuffs and knives. And maybe even some ropes, a gag and a blindfold as well. But on her, or on him? Choices, choices…

"As long as your boss does not decide to make tomorrow even more interesting again."

He didn't explain, but she knew what he meant—tomorrow might end with her being marched out the door on Mister Rowe and the local police chief's orders.

Oh, well. What would happen, would happen.

If push did actually come to shove, she would hold Hot Uncle to his promise to set it to rights.

Surely an organization as large as the CIA could find a use for an ex-second grade teacher?

 

"Do you know how many phone calls I've had?" Michelle asked, dropping the stack of plates on the table.

Kirill knew better than to respond. He'd tried that once; it hadn't gone well. Instead, he sat meekly in his seat, waiting for Michelle to provide the answer to her own question.

"Fourteen," Michelle revealed. She thrust one of the plates in his face. " _Fourteen_ , Kirill. From fourteen  _very_  pissed off sets of parents."

Kirill took the offered plate to set it down on the mat. It  _sounded_  bad. But fourteen out of twenty-two was just under two thirds. He was fine with those odds; he'd worked with worse. And if two thirds were really pissed off, did that mean the other third was pleased?

At the other end of the dining table, William started to snicker.

"This is  _not_  funny," Michelle stiffly said, whipping around to glare at her spouse. "He took  _weapons_  into a second grade class. You of all people should understand what a serious subject school safety is. He could have gotten the teacher fired. Or Tatiana expelled. You should be as angry with him as I am."

"I  _am_  angry with him."

"Really?"

"Course I am." William gestured at Tatiana. "I mean, she's  _my_  daughter, right?"

"Yeah? So?"

"So, if anyone's gonna teach her how to throw a knife, shouldn't it be me?"

Michelle grabbed her serving spoon to smack William on the head. "You're  _not_  helping."

"Ow," William muttered, rubbing the spot. When Michelle turned away to finish setting out plates, he grinned and winked at Andrew, who giggled.

The phone started to ring.

Michelle threw up her hands. "Great. Here comes pissed-off parent number fifteen."

"Let me get it," William said, throwing his napkin onto the table as he rose from his seat. He went to the kitchen to answer the phone. "Cooper residence," he said, heading through to the sitting room at the front of the house. Whatever conversation he was about to have would be for his ears alone.

Silence descended over the room, Michelle went back to angrily dishing out dinner. When his turn came, Kirill held up his plate, she dished out a spoonful of barbecue chicken with a 'fuck you' glare and a dismissive flick of her wrist. He smiled his thanks, to no avail. She glared again and moved on to Andrew. Her son's food, she dished out with a smile.

Kirill made a mental note to rework his plans for Tania's birthday party in June. If Michelle was this angry about something as simple as knives, the axe-throwing demo might have to wait.

A minute later, William reappeared. He set the handset back in the charger unit and returned to his seat.

"So?" Michelle prompted, dropping a spoonful of chicken onto her daughter's plate. "Which righteously pissed-off parent was that?"

"That was Alan Taylor," William said.

"Timothy's dad?"

"Uh huh."

"Was he calling to threaten to sue us as well?"

"Actually, no." As William served himself some rice, a corner of his mouth twitched. "He, uh,"—the twitch erupted into a full-on grin—"he wanted to know if Kirill could teach him how to throw knives." He grabbed his bottle to hide his grin in his drink.

Finally, some recognition.

"What did you say?" Kirill asked.

"Told him you'd be delighted to help. Gave him your number, said to give you a call." William took a swig of his beer. "You okay with that?"

"Of course." Kirill saw a chance to mend some badly damaged fences. "What about you?" he asked his sister-in-law. "Are you okay with that as well?"

Brows climbing, Michelle held a spread-fingered hand to her chest. "Oh, so  _now_  you want to know what I think? Not last night, or this morning, or over lunch, or whenever the hell it was you decided you were gonna carve up my daughter's school?"

"I do, yes."

She grabbed her glass to take a sip of her wine. "Do whatever the hell you want." She wielded a warning finger. "But if you do it, and something goes wrong, and Alan decides to sue you, don't come running to me."

"I'll go with him," William said. "Make sure he teaches Alan the proper technique."

Outrage rippled up Kirill's spine. "Since when do I need you to show me proper technique?" was his slightly-too-snippy reply. Older didn't always mean wiser, or more familiar with combat methods—a fact William often forgot. "How many times in  _your_  career have you ever thrown a knife at a live target?"

"I've used knives," William protested.

"Only to slice up your cakes."

Michelle slammed her wine glass down on the table. "Are we  _really_  going to do this right now?"

"No, we are not," Kirill said, mentally kicking himself in the ass. "My apologies. That was the wrong thing to say."

William muttered something under his breath.

But loud enough for Michelle to hear. Eyes blazing, she wielded her spoon at her spouse. "Unless you want to sleep on the couch with Boomer for the rest of the month, shut your mouth and eat your goddamn dinner."

Hearing his name, Boomer sat up and barked.

"Mommy?" Tatiana asked.

Michelle spooned some vegetables onto Andrew's plate. "What is it, honey?"

"Can we have knife throwing at my birthday party?"

William choked on a mouthful of beer. He coughed and thumped himself on the chest.

"I don't think that's a good idea," was Michelle's diplomatic response. "It's fun to watch, but it's  _very_  dangerous as well."

"But Uncle Kirill said we could."

Kirill held up a hand, trying to deflect the incoming wave of motherly wrath. "That was before I knew how you felt," he said. "It was only ever going to be something we did with your and Viko's permission."

Michelle's reply was  _agonisingly_  polite. "Kirill, I don't know how they do things in Russia, but here in the United States, we don't have knife throwing demonstrations at a child's eighth birthday party."

"Yeah, I mean, this is Virginia, for Christ's sake," William drawled. "We're decent, respectable people, here. We don't let kids do stuff like that until they're at  _least_  eleven. You wanna give them knives and guns when they're eight, you have to go to West Virginia instead."

Michelle shot another silencing glare at her spouse. "No knives, honey," she told her disappointed daughter. "How about we get you a bouncy castle instead?"

A bouncy castle could work. Especially if it was big enough to accommodate adults as well as kids…

Tatiana heaved a disconsolate sigh. "I suppose," she mumbled. Her disappointment morphed into a grin. "Can we invite Miss McKinnon?"

"Why on earth would you want to do that? William asked. "I mean, I'm sure she's nice, but she  _is_  your teacher."

"Cus I think she likes Uncle Kir."

Kirill's forkful of barbecue chicken froze halfway to his mouth. He'd actually picked up on that not long into his 'Show and Tell' visit, which was why he'd brought Kate into the conversation as soon as the dinner request had come out.

"Really?" Michelle said, turning suspicious eyes on him, her voice dripping with scorn.

"It is not my fault. I did not do anything."

"You're a  _liar_ ," Tatiana declared.

"Am not," Kirill shot back.

"Are too."

"When did I lie?"

"When you said you didn't do anything."

"What did I do with Miss McKinnon?"

"You winked at her," Tatiana said. "When you whistled. I  _saw_  you."

He couldn't deny it—she had him there. But at least she'd only caught him out once. His second wink, she must not have noticed, likely because he'd had his back to her. "Yes, but it was not a flirting wink," Kirill tried to explain. "It was a 'watch what I am about to do' wink. That is an  _entirely_  different state of affairs."

Michelle snorted and dished some veggies onto his plate. "Is that what you're going to tell Kate?"

"Why does Kate have to know I winked at Tatiana's teacher?"

"So, now you're going to lie to your pregnant girlfriend as well?"

This was all so unfair. "I am not lying to anyone about anything. I have  _zero_  interest in Miss McKinnon. She seems  _very_  nice, and I am sure she is a very good teacher, but she cannot even be twenty-four. I am almost old enough to be her father." A young father, but that wasn't the point.

"She's twenty-six," William said, finally doing something to 'help'.

"How the hell do you know that?" Michelle asked.

"Came up in her background check."

Now, it was Michelle who choked on her drink. "You ran a background check on our daughter's second grade teacher?"

"Honey, I ran a background check on everyone in the whole school." William gestured at Andrew and Tatiana. "You think I let just anyone look after my kids?"

Michelle dropped into her seat and leaned forward to rest her head on her (empty) plate with her arms folded over her ears. "I'm surrounded by morons," a muffled voice said. "Total, utter, goddamn morons." Sighing, she raised her head and grabbed her glass to take another sip of her wine.

"It's not illegal," William said. One surly look from his wife made him hold up his hands in defeat. "Okay, it's  _slightly_  illegal, but with the best of intentions."

"Slightly illegal, but with the best of intentions," Michelle muttered. "Should probably be your family motto."

Kirill had always been more partial to 'hold my knife and watch this', but given what he'd just done today, this didn't seem the right moment to make that point.

" _I_  think you were flirting with her," Tatiana declared.

Kirill shook his head. "I was not. I give you my word."

"But she wanted you to take her to dinner."

Sweet Mother of God. What the hell was that phrase from the Bible again—something about 'out of the mouths of babes'?

Michelle blinked in disbelief. " _Really_?"

"I assume you said no?" William asked, grinning.

Kirill huffed. "Of  _course_  I said no. I also told her that I have a girlfriend, and that we have a baby on the way." He paused to chew on a mouthful of chicken. "I may be stupid, but I am not  _that_  stupid."

Michelle's expression practically screamed 'I wouldn't be so sure about that'.

This was more than unfair—this was bordering on a miscarriage of justice.

"I took you for ice cream," he whispered to Tatiana. "And this is the thanks I get? At the first opportunity, you rat me out to your parents?"

Tatiana giggled and blew a raspberry at him.

But two could play at that game, and he'd been playing it much longer than her. "You _do_ remember that I can rat you out as well?" Kirill reminded his niece. "Maybe I should tell your mama what naughty word you used on the way home from school." An f-bomb, as it happened—not the first one he'd heard her drop, and given her heritage and temperament, almost certainly not the last.

Tatiana's expression went scarily blank.

Uh oh.

"Mommy?" she said in a wounded voice.

"What is it, honey?"

"Is Uncle Dan coming to my birthday party?

The little minx wouldn't dare…

"I'm not sure," Michelle said. "We'll invite him, but he lives in New York, and he's _very_ busy." She frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I want to tell him he's my favourite uncle now."

William snickered.

Yes, apparently she would.

Kirill wasn't about to take his dethronement lying down, especially not in favour of someone as useless and inattentive as Dan. He probably wouldn't even remember to send her a card, much less buy her a birthday present. "Does Uncle Dan take you for ice cream?" he asked.

"No."

"Can Uncle Dan teach you how to pick locks?"

"No."

"Can Uncle Dan show you how to throw knives?"

A huff, then, "No."

"Then, why would you make him your favourite uncle, when he is obviously nowhere near as cool as me?"

For one of the few times in her short life, the tiny tyrant had nothing to say.

As always, Michelle played the peacemaker. "Let's just all agree that Uncle Kirill's your coolest uncle, but sometimes takes being cool just a little bit too far."

"Sometimes takes  _everything_  just a little bit too far," William murmured.

"Yeah, like all the way to Venezuela."

Kirill dropped his fork on his plate. "Are we really still talking about that?"

Michelle's response was another soul-blasting stare.

Okay, yes, apparently, they were.

The phone rang again.

"I'll get it," Michelle said, rising from her seat. "If it's someone else asking for knife throwing lessons, I'm gonna tell them to stick their knives where the sun doesn't shine." She grabbed the phone. "Hello, Michelle Cooper speaking," she said.

All talk around the table ceased as everyone listened in.

Michelle grimaced. "Mister Rowe, hi, how are you?" she said. She turned to narrow her eyes at Kirill, making it clear what the reason for the call was. "Yes, I heard all about it." She rolled her eyes and made a 'get on with it' gesture. "I understand. And yes, that seems fair to me." More talking on the other end. "Yes, I'll make sure we're both be there." She nodded. " _And_  my brother-in-law as well. Absolutely. That won't be a problem." She jabbed her index finger at Kirill then curtly drew it across her throat. Another pause. "Okay, great. Yes, you too. Thank you so much for calling."

She dropped the phone back into the cradle.

"Problem?" William asked, serving himself some more rice.

Which seemed like a stupid question to Kirill. If Tatiana's principal was calling, of _course_ there was a problem. The question should really be—how  _much_  of a problem?"

Michelle headed back to her seat. "You could say that, yeah."

"What's up?"

"Apparently, Mister Rowe's been getting phone calls from angry parents as well."

"And?"

She served herself some veggies and rice. "And some of them want to discuss what happened at school today at the parents' night meeting next month."

William grunted. "A public hanging. Awesome."

"No worming out of parents' night this time," Michelle warned her spouse, waving a serving spoon in his face. "I don't care what happens at work. I'm not handling this by myself." She turned to Kirill, smiling sweetly. "Oh, and you're coming as well."

"Why do I need to go?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you were the one who showed a room full of second grade kids  _how to throw knives_?"

"But I am not a parent."

"All the better," William said. "Nobody knows you. Makes you an easier target for their temper tantrums than me."

Switching to Russian, Kirill said, "Would this be a convenient time to tell you to go fuck yourself?"

"If you're really worried, just bring Kate with you. She works in a hospital. She's used to dealing with pissed-off people. She'll protect you, make sure they back off."

Sadly, William made a good point. As good as he was at psychological warfare, dealing with angry suburban parents was far more Katenka's talent than his. And if Katenka came to the parents' night with him, he could introduce her to Miss McKinnon, show everyone once and for all that he had no designs on his niece's teacher.

Saying that, now he actually thought about it, what an amazing threesome he, Kate and the teacher would make…

"Just remember this is the catchment school for where you guys live as well," Michelle said, snapping him out of his impious thoughts.

What the hell was a  _catchment_  school? "So?"

"So, don't do or say anything that'll get your kids blacklisted before they're even born."

Now, he understood what she meant. "You mean this is the school our child will eventually attend?"

"Unless you move away, yes."

That give him another wicked idea. Not quite as wicked as having a threesome with his girlfriend and his niece's teacher, but it was getting close.

"I know that look," said William, frowning. "What the hell is that sick brain of yours planning now?"

"If my calculations are correct, our child will not start second-grade until the autumn of 2019?"

William nodded. "A few months after they’ll turn seven, yeah."

"Seven years is quite a long time."

"Uh huh?"

"And Mister Rowe is not exactly the youngest of men."

"So?"

"So, the school may have a new principal by then. Maybe some new teachers as well."

"Kir..."

Kirill stabbed a chunk of carrot and popped it into his mouth. "So, by 2019, I should be able to give the knife throwing demo all over again?"


End file.
